Somebody's Going to Emergency
by Notorious JMG
Summary: Set in the year 2020. Cameron treats a very famous patient, but finds difficulty in giving him an unfavorable prognosis. Crossover with The West Wing.
1. Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc

She knew that, even at 42, she could go further in life. She was only a department head now; she could easily move up to chief of staff or even dean. But for Allison Cameron, M.D., being Chief of Diagnostic Medicine for Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital was quite a satisfactory position.

Fifteen years earlier, when she had begun at PPTH, she had never dreamed of becoming the Chief of Diagnostics. Greg House had held the position back then, and it seemed that he favored Robert Chase and Eric Foreman over her for advancement.

But time and other jobs had drawn them both away from PPTH. When House was promoted to Chief of Staff of the hospital, Lisa Cuddy had offered Cameron the position, and she had readily accepted.

Fifteen years had taken its toll. House was still House – all snark and wit. However, the with time, the pain in his leg had continued to worsen to the point where Vicodin couldn't control it, and when he had a second infarction in 2012, he had reluctantly made the decision to allow his leg to be amputated.

Cameron had herself performed the primary part of the surgery, because House hadn't trusted anybody else to do it. Afterwards, he had been fitted with a prosthetic that allowed him to have an almost natural gait – almost, Cameron reminded herself. He did still have to walk with a cane, but it was his "bitchin'" flame cane.

His hair and scruffy beard had long since turned completely white, but for all that, he still looked young for his age. Cameron's body had also played well with time – she was still fit and trim and still with, as House had remarked upon not a week prior, "An ass to kill for." The only thing that had changed was her hair, which was almost completely gray – strange for a 42 year old – but she was in good health, and still got appreciative looks from men half her age.

In the seven years that she had been Chief of Diagnostic Medicine, she had had nine fellows – she was now in the first year of her third set of three, Drs. Erin Coleman, Marcus Bellamy, and Andrew Melvin. When she had first seen Dr. Coleman's application, she had done a double-take, thinking it said "Eric Foreman", but Dr. Coleman was just about as different from Foreman as one could possibly get – a fair-skinned red-head, with green eyes and the "only ass in the hospital better than Cameron's", again, according to House.

Cameron sometimes wondered how it was that House still worked for hospital. One would think he should've been fired for sexual harassment years ago. But just like Cameron, Dr. Coleman laughed it off and took it as a compliment. From time to time, Dr. Coleman would even flirt with Dr. House – who was 35 years her senior! – and when House flirted back, Cameron would occasionally feel a flash of jealousy – she found it completely irrational after all these years, but it was still there.

Maybe it was what had happened between her and House just after her promotion. He had taken her out for a congratulatory dinner, followed by a drink, and then, as the Sublime song said, one drink turned into three or four, and then they went and got into his car… and then they drove away someplace REAL far.

Well, maybe not real far. They only went as far as her apartment, and if there was any lack of consent, it was on House's part. Eventually, though, he couldn't resist the charms of an attractive 35 year old woman who REALLY wanted him. That night had been passionate and intense, and had left Cameron wanting more – but not only had the possibility never occurred again, House had never even MENTIONED it again. It was as if it had never happened.

But that was neither here nor there. What was here was the fact that a page had just sounded in the implant in her right ear. "Dr. Cameron to the clinic, please."

The computerized voice was followed by a far different voice, saying, "Dr. Cameron to the clinic, please… we are in need of a tight ass and a snarky demeanor."

She laughed aloud, following it with, "Shut up, House."

And the voice in her ear did – but only momentarily, as he then said, "You do realize that if anybody heard you, they think you're crazy now."

"People think I'm crazy anyway. It's nothing new. Besides which, this has been an issue ever since Bluetooth technology exploded fifteen years ago."

She rounded a corner, and there was her boss. "Just like you, Cameron," he snarked, "always taking the fun out of an argument with reason and rationale."

"Yeah, whatever," she muttered. "So, who's the patient?"

"Seventy-four year old male. Presented with shortness of breath and heart arrhythmia. Brain function is normal – well, as normal as can be. He also has a relapsing-remitting course of multiple sclerosis."

"Family history of heart disease?"

"None," House replied. "However, he was in a high stress job for eight years, which probably did some damage to his heart. In addition, he was treated 'under-the-table' by his wife for several years for his MS, so we don't have a complete medical history on that."

"Under-the-table?" Cameron replied. "Is his wife at least an M.D.?"

"She was, yes," House replied. "She died last year, though, so I can't really ask her about it."

At that point, something clicked in Cameron's head.

_Seventy-four. Relapsing-remitting MS. High stress job for eight years. Illegally treated by Doctor Wife who passed away last year._

"House…" she started, "is there something you aren't telling me about this patient?"

"Like what?" he replied, the innocent look on his face barely able to hide the smirk that lay beneath.

"Like, for example, was this patient, oh, perhaps, leader of the free world from, say, 1999 till 2007?"

"Hmmm…" House said, evading. "Oh, nearly forgot. Your patient's name is Josiah Edward Bartlet."

Cameron stopped dead in her tracks. "Josiah… Edward… Bartlet?" she squeaked, even though she had already figured it out. "As in President Bartlet?"

"No, as in Jed Bartlet, host of Wheel of Fortune," House replied sarcastically. "Yes, as in President Bartlet."

By now, they had reached the clinic. Cameron didn't even have to ask the duty nurse which room – she identified it by the two men in black suits standing outside the door. She approached them tentatively, and when she got within about five feet, the one on the left spoke. "May I help you, ma'am?" he asked, in a voice that simultaneously conveyed politeness and "don't mess with me, I could snap your neck with my pinky."

"Yes," she said. "My name is Dr. Allison Cameron; I've been assigned the President's case."

The other man stepped forward. "Raise your arms, please." Cameron did so, as the Secret Service agent patted her down, making sure she wasn't concealing a gun under her lab coat. "She's clean."

The first agent spoke again. "You can enter."

Cameron stepped forward and grabbed the doorknob. She took a deep breath, then turned the knob and opened the door.


	2. You Don't Always Get What You Want

When Cameron entered the room, she stopped dead.

Sitting on the examination table before her was a man who simply exuded power. Even at seventy-four, his hair gone completely silver and his bifocals thicker than an old Coke bottle, Jed Bartlet still appeared a force to be reckoned with. And she knew that he was exactly that – just six months prior, he had flown to Paris as a last ditch measure to keep France, Germany, and Israel from going full force into Iran. Not only had he succeeded in convincing them to give negotiations a chance, he had also managed to convince Iran to reopen formal diplomatic channels with the United States.

A voice in her ear interrupted her daydream. "Cameron, I do believe you're drooling," House whispered.

Cameron snapped her jaw closed, realizing that she was staring at President Bartlet like a schoolgirl with a crush. It was evident that he could tell as well, given the distinct gleam of humor in his eyes and the subtle smile on his face.

"Mr. President," she began.

_Mr. President_. Never in her life had she thought she'd actually address one.

"I'm Dr. Allison Cameron, and I'll be conducting your examination."

She took a moment to look over his file. "Temperature 98.2, heartrate 92 – that's a little high, but it's to be expected with an arrhythmia – blood pressure 162 over 99?"

She stopped and looked at the President. "Mr. President, that last one is a bit of a cause for concern."

He nodded and smiled. "Yes, I'm aware. My wife was a doctor, so she told me all about high blood pressure. I'm also aware that the Interferon I've been on for almost thirty years probably has something to do with it, as does the fact that my heart's been acting like a sixty year old Ford engine that hasn't had a tune-up since 1982. Oh, by the way, I'm Jed Bartlet. Pleasure to meet you."

Cameron, realizing that she hadn't given the President the opportunity to introduce himself, flushed bright red. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, I should've given-"

Bartlet cut her off. "Don't worry; it happens on a regular basis. And please, call me Jed."

Cameron's eyebrows shot up. "Uh, Mr. President… I'm not sure –"

"It'll make me feel more comfortable as a patient…"

Cameron sighed. You could always tell the ones who had been married to doctors. They knew better than anybody else how to manipulate doctors. She opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted.

"Greg House, Mr. President," House said. "I'm the Chief of Staff here at Princeton-Plainsborough, and I want to assure you, you're in the BEST of hands with Dr. Cameron. She's always attentive to her patients and will make sure to take care of WHATEVER you need."

With that last statement, he waggled his eyebrows like the dirty old man he was and smirked at Cameron. Cameron sighed and shook her head, wondering for perhaps the fifty thousandth time why she continued to put up with House. Before she could say anything, though –

"Dr. House," President Bartlet said, sounding more than a little cross, "are you implying that I would seek sexual favors from Dr. Cameron? Because if so, then you are sorely mistaken."

"No, not at all!" House replied, mock surprise tingeing his voice. "I was implying that Dr. Cameron might seek sexual favors from you!"

Now Cameron was pissed. With a huff, she turned to glare at House, but again, before she could say anything –

"Dr. House, I might warn you that I am still well liked by the United States Secret Service, who would be more than happy to arrange a vacation for you at, say, Rahway State Prison? Oh yes, and lest I forget, all it would take would be one phone call from me to President Seaborn, and the 82nd Airborne would be remodeling your apartment in what we Washington insiders like to call Army Barracks Chic."

A pleased smirk grew on Cameron's face as she turned back to House, expecting him to look like a chastised little boy. Instead, however, a truly pleasant smile had plastered itself onto his face.

"President Bartlet, I've always heard that you're a skilled debater and excellent in an argument. Having seen it for myself is one of the greatest things I've ever experienced."

Bartlet appeared stunned for a moment, and then he chuckled. "So you're telling me that you said those rather impolite things about Dr. Cameron just to get me to argue with you?"

"Oh, absolutely!" House said. "Cameron can handle it – she's been taking it for sixteen years – and it was certainly worth her looks of murderous wrath to experience the joy of an argument with you."  
Bartlet looked thoughtful. "Dr. House, do you play chess?"

"You could say I dabble," House replied, a look of utter glee finding its way to his face.

"Well, if I end up being admitted – as I imagine I probably will be, given my current heart condition – come see me, and we'll see if your chess skills are as finely tuned as your wit."

House nodded, looking like a little boy on Christmas, and said, "Your wish is my command, Mr. President!"

Cameron rolled her eyes. "If you'll excuse me," she interrupted dryly, "I have a patient to examine, and you have a hospital to run, Dr. House."

"No I don't," House replied. "Dr. Cuddy specifically instructed me to make sure that President Bartlet was completely comfortable in every way."

Cameron gritted her teeth. House could be so incredibly frustrating sometimes, but what could she possibly do about it?

That's when President Bartlet came to the rescue. "Dr. House," he said gently, "I do appreciate the concern, but Dr. Cameron seems to be a perfectly competent doctor. I'm sure that you have other things that need to be done."

House was visibly disappointed. "True," he allowed. "I suppose I could go supervise the Diagnostics Department for a while."

Then he perked up. "That actually sounds like a good idea. Terrorize Cameron's fellows and make her life miserable when she returns!"

He turned for the exit. "Pleasure to meet you, Jed! Cameron, please don't kill the President! Or marry him!"

The door swung shut behind him. Cameron rolled her eyes. Honestly. The man was insufferable.


	3. The Fall's Gonna Kill You

Allison Cameron was on the outside, looking in. At any rate, she was outside former President Jed Bartlet's room, looking in through the window. President Bartlet was sleeping peacefully, his heart rate down closer to normal, the movement of his eyes indicating that he was deep in R.E.M. sleep.

She noticed his presence next to her before he even spoke – even after all these years, hearing his unsteady gait or smelling the distinctive combination of whatever soap, deodorant and cologne he wore caused a tingle deep within her. Sixteen years, and it should've gone away, but there was still something about Greg House that excited her.

Such as the way he talked to her now. Perching his chin just above her shoulder, he spoke just loud enough for her to hear. "Remarkable man, isn't he?" he murmured, his breath tickling her ear.

She managed to refrain from gasping in reflex, but had to take a couple of seconds to recover before speaking. "He really is… I wish we could figure out what was wrong with him, though."

"What's your team come up with?"

"A number of things, none of them possible."

"Such as?"

"Lupus, leukemia, toxoplasmosis, pneumonia, congestive heart failure… but none of the symptoms fully line up with any of them."

"May I make a suggestion?"  
"Of course," Cameron replied. "You might be old and forgetful, but you're still one of the best diagnosticians in the country."

"Test him to see if his multiple sclerosis has changed to a secondary progressive course."

Cameron's breath caught. "You don't think…"

"It fits all of his symptoms, and would explain the problems with his heart," House said softly. "Surely this is something he's been preparing for since he found out."

Cameron bowed her head. "I'll order the tests."

xXx

"Jed."

He cracked his eyes. "What?" he grumbled.

"The girls are going to be late for school!"

His eyes came all the way open to discover his wife standing impatiently at the foot of his bed. "And?"

"I have to be at the hospital in ten minutes. Get your ass up and get Liz and Ellie to school!"

"Fine, fine," he grumped, rolling himself out of bed. He grabbed a Notre Dame sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, dressed himself sloppily, and went downstairs, hair askew.

"Dad!" Liz complained upon seeing him. "You can't take us to school like that!"

Oh, high school freshmen. They always had something to complain about.

"Oh, quiet, Elizabeth," he replied crankily. "It's not like your friends will see me. I'll stay in the car."

Liz pouted. "I'm riding in the back then."

Jed rolled his eyes skyward. "Heaven save me from teenage girls," he implored of God. Then a sound behind him made him smile.

"Daddy!"

Three year old Zoey came running down the stairs, hell bent on reaching her father. A little bundle of pink fluff topped with brown hair wrapped itself around his right leg. "Zoey!" he boomed, swinging her upward. He wrapped his arms around her and planted a big sloppy kiss on her cheek.

"Eww, you're stinky!" Zoey whined. Abbey, passing through the kitchen on her way out the door, laughed and said, "That's why we should always brush our teeth in the morning, young lady!"

Jed attempted to kiss her good-bye, but Abbey turned her cheek to him. "I trust my daughter's judgment on morning breath, and it seems like you need a date with a Listerine bottle!"

"Have a good day, Doctor Bartlet," Jed snarked, kissing her on the cheek as he attempted to keep Zoey from crawling on top of his head.

"You too… Doctor Bartlet," Abbey replied in a more seductive tone. She opened the door, and then was gone for another day.

Jed sat Zoey down in her high chair… and as he did so, a sharp pain shot through his chest, catching him short of breath. He stood up and clutched his shoulder.

"Daddy, are you alright?" Ellie asked. Concern was etched on Liz's face, and Zoey had turned her wide eyes up toward him.

"Yes, I'm fine – AAHHHH!" he howled, as the pain lanced through him again, sending him to his knees.

"Daddy!" Liz screamed. Zoey started crying, and Ellie was frozen in shock. Pain shot through him again – and again – and again –

xXx

When President Bartlet's heart monitor had started beeping, Cameron had torn her attention away from House for just a moment – long enough to see that his heart rate had started dropping precipitously. Wrenching the door open, she had gone inside, just as every alarm in the room went off.

"Shit!" she shouted. "House! Call a code, get a crash cart! President Bartlet's in v-fib!"

She heard House barking the orders outside as she hit the switches on the defibrillator and prepared an epinephrine injection. Two nurses had joined her in the room within thirty seconds. Grabbing the paddles off the defibrillator, she waited until it signaled that it was charged.

"Clear!" she shouted, placing the paddles against the President's chest. The nurses removed their hands, and the defibrillator activated. President Bartlet's body jumped, but his heartbeat remained flatlined. House observed the monitor. "Nothing."

"Clear!" Cameron yelled again. This time, the charge got a result. "Sinus rhythm," House reported after a moment.

Cameron hung the paddles back up, ordered the nurses to move Bartlet up to the ICU, and stepped back outside the room. House joined her a moment later.

"The cardiac arrest all but confirms it," he said. "His nervous system is failing. His MS has changed to secondary progressive. It's unlikely that he'll leave this hospital."

Cameron bowed her head, fighting back tears. She had been given charge of the care of this great man, and now she would have to give him this diagnosis.

"I don't know if I can tell him," she whispered, sounding like a broken little girl.

She felt a hand under her chin, then he lifted her face up to look at him. "Allison," he said – odd for him, he never called her by her first name, and his voice was unusually gentle. "I'm sorry you have to do this, but you have to be honest with him."

She sighed, tears finding their way down her cheekbones. "How can I tell President Bartlet that he's going to die?"

House's gaze seemed to look through her eyes, into her soul. "You'll find a way. Just be strong."


	4. Control

James Wilson had never wanted anything more than to be a doctor. As such, he was more than content to be the director emeritus of the Oncology Department at Princeton-Plainsborough.

He had never remarried after his last marriage had ended in utter failure back in 2006. As such, he would sometimes spend all day and all night at the hospital, sleeping on his couch, showering in the locker room… he was becoming like House in so many ways, just without the crankiness.

At 8:00 AM this particular Saturday, he was asleep on the couch in his office when a sharp knock roused him from his slumber. Bleary-eyed, he opened the door to find a Secret Service agent standing outside. Taking stock of Dr. Wilson's appearance, the agent allowed the briefest of smiles to pass over his lips before speaking.

"Sorry to wake you, Dr. Wilson, but I need to check your office briefly."

"Of course," he said, confused, stepping back to allow the agent in.

The agent looked around his office quickly but efficiently, stepping to the window to close the blinds. "Wing is clear and secure," he said. "Panther is clear."

"Panther?" Dr. Wilson asked. "Whose codename is that?"

The agent turned and looked at him. "President Seaborn."

xXx

Samuel Norman Seaborn, 46th President of the United States of America, strode confidently through the corridors of Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital. He always liked to lead, something the drove his Secret Service detail up the wall.

He rounded a corner – and ran smack into a white-haired, scruffy, wild-looking man. They both landed on their respective asses. Secret Service immediately surrounded President Seaborn and tried to restrain the wild man, but he brandished his cane at them.

"Get back!"

"Sir, please drop the cane," one of the Secret Service agents said sternly.

"No, fuck you!" he snapped. "I'm the Chief of Staff of this hospital! No Stasi goon in a black suit gets to tell me what to do here!"

"Sir, drop the cane, stand up, and get agai-"

Sam cut the agent off. "Chief of Staff? You must be Dr. House."

He rose and extended his hand. "I'm Sam Seaborn."

House stood and took the offered hand, shooting a piercing glare at the Secret Service agent who had offered to pin him to the wall him. "Greg House. I assume you're here to see President Bartlet."

"Indeed I am. He's really the man I owe my Presidency to, so I figured it would only be right for me to come see him."

House straightened himself up, and then took a breath. "That's very considerate of you, Mr. President. However, I don't mind telling you that your visit has massively inconvenienced this hospital. We've had to close an entire wing, move every patient out, not admit some people who really should've been admitted, and really had a mess to deal with."

Sam dropped his head. "I know, and I'm sorry. However, the Secret Service is extremely insistent."

At that moment, there was yet another commotion at the end of the hall. "Sir, I'm sorry, but you can't go down there," an official sounding voice said.

"Like hell! I'm a department head here, and you're a cop! Get out of my way!"

House grinned. "Hey! You! Crazy Gestapo Agent!"

The Secret Service agent turned and stared at House, clearly displeased to be compared to Hitler's secret police.

"That's Dr. James Wilson. He's my head of oncology. You can let him go."

The agent just stared at House, not relenting. Then, the head of the detail sighed and nodded almost imperceptibly. The agent let go of Wilson, who strode down the hall.

"House? What the hell is going on here? They came and checked my office, then made me get out, told me President Seaborn – oh my God!"

Wilson's jaw dropped as Sam turned to face him. "You're – you're President Seaborn!" He stuck his hand out and grabbed Sam's hand, shaking it like an excited ten year old. "It's such an honor to meet you!"

Sam's amused grin widened as Wilson shook his hand. "I've heard good things about you, Dr. Wilson," he said. "Heard you're one of the best oncologists in the country!"

Wilson blushed – _he actually blushed_, House thought in amusement. "Well, I suppose you could say that," he said modestly. "I just come to work and do my job every day."

"Yeah, that's what I say too," Sam said, slightly sarcastically. "Sometimes, though, it leads to mayhem and military action."

"What the hell is going on here?" a voice called from down the hall. Lisa Cuddy approached, having simply blown past the Secret Service agent, who was now shaking his head in despair. "I pay you two to work, not – oh!"

President Seaborn had turned to face her. As he took her in, a puzzled look grew on his face, and he just stood staring at her for a moment.

Cuddy realized that he was staring at her, and she cocked her head to glare at him. "Just like any other man," she muttered.

House piped up. "Hey, he knows a good thing when he sees it, and you sure like to make sure we see it!"

"No, no," Sam said. "Have we met before?"

"I don't think so," she replied, confused. "Dr. Lisa Cuddy. I'm the dean of medicine here."

Sam continued to look puzzled. "I just – I feel like we've met before, I just don't know where."

Cuddy shook her head. "Sorry, no."

Sam shook his head too. "Oh well. Anyway, I'm Sam Seaborn."

"Uh, yeah!" Cuddy replied, then realized what she had said. "Oh… sorry…"

"No worries," he replied.

Then he turned to Dr. House. "So… can I see President Bartlet?"

"Yes," House replied guardedly, "but I will warn you, he had a heart attack last night. He's very weak right now, and he may be sleeping."

Sam sighed as they walked down the hall. "I knew it would come to this eventually, but I tried to tell myself it wouldn't. Is he in good hands at least?"

As they walked away, Wilson and Cuddy were both amazed at House's answer. "Oh yes. Dr. Allison Cameron is by far our best doctor. President Bartlet is definitely in good hands."


	5. I Serve at the Pleasure

The voices cut into his unconsciousness like super-heated knives. He heard them – the first thing that he had heard in hours – and they were talking about him.

"He's doing alright for now," said the female voice. "The reality is, though… well, the reality is…"

The female voice paused. She sounded hesitant, he thought.

"What's the matter?" asked a rather familiar sounding male voice.

"His… MS has changed to secondary progressive. It's unlikely that he'll leave this hospital. In fact, it's unlikely that he'll survive the weekend."

There was silence for a moment. Then, "My God," the male voice said. "Are you sure?"

It was time to add his input to this conversation. "She's one of the best doctors in the country, Sam," Jed croaked, forcing his eyes open. "If she says that I'm going to be dead by Sunday evening, then she's probably right."

"Mr. President," Sam said.

"Mr. President," Jed replied.

Dr. Cameron rolled her eyes. "Are you boys done?"

Jed and Sam both looked at her, amused. Cameron then realized what she had said.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," she gasped, covering her mouth. "That may have been the most disrespectful thing I have ever… no, wait, I've said worse to House."

President Bartlet chewed that one over for a moment. "I'd believe that… although I think there's plenty you haven't said to Dr. House."

Cameron stopped and looked at him. "Excuse me?"

Jed just smiled and laughed weakly. "We'll discuss it more later, I'm sure."

"I'm sorry, did I miss something?" President Seaborn asked in confusion.

"No more than the usual, Sam," Jed replied. "If I'm not mistaken, it took you until you were forty-two to finally pop the question to Ainsley Hayes."

"Now that's not fair, sir," Sam replied. "I was a Democratic Congressman, and she was a Republican lawyer –"

"She was the White House counsel for a Democratic administration. She was as liberal as a Republican could get and still be a Republican."

The color had begun to return to President Bartlet's face – it seemed that an argument energized him.

"You liked her. She liked you. You were both Washington insiders; you both understood the sacrifices the other would have to make! But NO, you used that Republican excuse for years until, if I remember correctly, she took you out into Fairfax County, got you naked, and then said she was going to leave you out there unless you had the balls to propose!"

He stopped, out of breath. When he regained it, he gasped, "Damn, I used to be able to go on for a lot longer than that."

Sam was laughing, despite Jed's shortness of breath. "That's not exactly how it happened, sir. We were at a reception at a very nice hotel in Fairfax County, we both got a little drunk and decided to get a room, and then –"

"You got naked and she threatened to leave you there unless you proposed," President Bartlet finished dryly.

President Seaborn stopped, his mouth gaping open like a fish. Redness crept up his neck into his cheeks, as he abashedly admitted, "Yes, sir, I suppose that's about how it happened."

"Oh, stop with the sir," Bartlet replied, changing the subject as quickly as he'd won the argument. "You're the President of the United States. I'm not."

"Yes sir," Sam shot back quickly, "but you were the President when my political career took off. I worked for you when you were the President. I served at the pleasure of the President of the United States."

"And now you have a whole staff to serve at your pleasure," Bartlet replied. "Also, I'm just one of the citizens now. I'd threaten to vote for the other guy in the next election, but it looks like I'm not going to be around for that."

Sam had begun to prepare a rejoinder to President Bartlet, but when Jed made the last statement, he stopped, unsure of what to say.

A tap on the door interrupted the uncomfortable silence. "Come in," President Bartlet called, and the door opened. The head of Sam's detail stepped into the room.

"We need to leave, sir," he said. "The snowfall is starting to increase at an alarming rate, and they've said at the airport that they can't keep it open much longer."

"Go," Jed said. "You're the President, you need to be in the White House, not in a teaching hospital in New Jersey."

Sam's face betrayed confusion, guilt, sadness all at once. He looked around himself, as if not sure what to do. Then, a glimmer of steel appeared in his eyes. "Yes sir," he replied. "I serve at the pleasure of the people… and the President… of the United States."

A smile crossed his face as he spoke, but at the same time, a single tear made its way down his left cheek. "Thank you, sir."

Jed looked back at him. "Good-bye, Sam," he said, his voice cracking.

"Good-bye, sir," Sam whispered, afraid his own voice would betray him.

He quickly left the room before his emotions overwhelmed him. He stood outside the door for a moment, collecting his thoughts, when he heard the door click shut behind him.

"Mr. President?"

He had completely forgotten that Dr. Cameron was there.

"Are you alright, sir?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied softly. "It's just hard… very hard… to say good-bye. After I found out my father had been unfaithful to my mother for so many years… and when my father passed… he was like my father for all those years. He was my start in politics… he told me that I'd be President someday…"

He stopped, his voice choking in his throat.

"I'll make sure to keep you updated," Cameron said quietly. "You'll know everything we do."

Sam blinked back his tears, and swallowed the lump that had built in his throat. Then he remembered.

"Dr. Cameron," he said, "I just thought you should know… when I got here and asked about the President… Dr. House said that you were his doctor… and he said that you were by far the best doctor here."

Whatever Cameron had been expecting President Seaborn to say, it certainly wasn't that. Shocked speechless, she tried to reply, but found herself so dumbfounded as to not be able to form words.

"Thank you for taking care of him," Sam said. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

With that, he strode off down the hallway, a phalanx of Secret Service agents around him.

Cameron stepped back into President Bartlet's room, still unable to think clearly, as House's words – though they may have come from President Seaborn's mouth, she could still hear them in House's voice – rang through her head:

_By far the best doctor here._


	6. The PPTH ProAm

Saturday morning.

Greg House usually wasn't up this early on a Saturday morning. However, he hadn't been able to leave the night before – at about 8:30, enough snow had been dumped on Princeton to bring everything to a grinding halt. It was being called a freak storm, the kind that hadn't been seen in New Jersey in years.

And so, he had slept on the couch in his office the night before. The sounds of the hospital coming to life had awakened him at 7:00 AM, and now he was doing his daily therapy, except he was striding through the halls of PPTH rather than the streets of his neighborhood.

As he passed one room, he heard his name called.

"Dr. House!"  
He stopped, turned back, and stuck his head into the room. President Bartlet seemed to be surprisingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for somebody with likely less than forty-eight hours to live.

"Good morning, Mr. President," House said. "How are you feeling this fine day?"

"Well, first of all, I don't know if I'd go so far as to call it a fine day, given that there's enough snow on the ground outside that the cars are merely white lumps."

House couldn't disagree with that.

"Secondly, it hurts just to move, I'm having trouble with the functions in my left hand, and according to that monitor right there, my blood pressure is high enough to power Cleveland. Oh, and there's the small matter that I was informed last night that I probably have less than forty-eight hours to live. But aside from that, I'm great!"

With that, he turned a bright smile to House and said, "I also believe we have a chess game to play."

House, on the other hand, was astonished. "Wait. Are you telling me that Dr. Cameron actually TOLD you your prognosis?"

Bartlet's smile faded a notch. "Well, not really. She was discussing it with Sam Seaborn last night as I was waking up, and I heard her. She seems like a sweet girl, too, so I can understand if it may have been difficult for her to bring herself to tell me."

House shook his head and laughed. "Sixteen years she's been working for me, and she's never quite developed the cynicism that a good doctor needs."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Jed replied quickly. "Cynicism seems like an overrated trait in a doctor. You forget, I was married to one, and one of my daughters is one."

"Mr. President, with all due respect, they had to have been the most cynical doctors of all time given that they were part of the President's family."

Jed looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, "Well, you're probably right, but who cares. Chess!"

"Alright," House replied. "Let me just go back to my-"

As he turned to leave the room, he saw that he didn't need to bother to go back to his office and retrieve his chess set, because it was sitting on President Bartlet's bedside table.

"Okay, Mr. President, joke's on me," House said, bewildered. "I know you aren't a Jedi Knight in disguise, so how exactly did my chess set get here from my office?"

"Oh, I just flagged down one of the other doctors here," Jed replied. "A Lisa Cuddy, I believe. Very nice woman. Seems to be a good Dean of Medicine."

"That's not all she's good at," House cracked under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what was that? You'd like your apartment redecorated?"

"No, sir," House replied quickly. "I didn't say anything."

Jed shook his head and smiled. Some people just didn't learn.

House allowed Jed to open the game, despite Jed's superior skill – he felt it was only proper to give that to the former President.

"You know, I hate hospitals," Jed said as he made his first move. "I've managed to stay out of them except for checkups for the last fifteen years. In fact, the last time I was in a hospital for an extended period of time, it was because my old friend Leo had had his first heart attack."

"Leo McGarry, sir?" House asked. Jed nodded affirmatively. "I remember that," House said. "I'll admit – I had voted for Vinick in 2006, but when Leo McGarry died on Election Day, it still seemed like an insurmountable loss for the country."

"Yeah," Jed replied sadly, moving a piece. "The worst part is, there was nothing we could've done. He was already gone when Annabeth Schott found him."

House stopped, and looked at Jed. He wasn't quite sure how to form his next phrase. So, he took a moment of silence, making his move, and then waited till Jed had made his next move before speaking.

"That's actually not true, sir," House said.

Jed looked up at him. "What do you mean, exactly?" he asked sharply.

"What I mean, sir, is that if Bethesda Naval Hospital had installed a Pacemaker with a distress signal after his first heart attack – and they had those, back in 2005 – first of all, he probably wouldn't have had the second heart attack, and secondly, even if he had, emergency response in Houston would've been notified as soon as he went into cardiac arrest."

The color had drained from Jed's face. "You mean, we could have saved him?"

It was then that House realized what he had done. "Oh, God," he said softly. "Mr. President, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I really didn't…"

Jed took a deep breath, then used his right hand to wipe his eyes. "It's alright," he said. "It's been over fourteen years now. I just… I just wish we would've known."

"You can never know everything, sir," House replied. "Even with a doctor for a wife. Even with a Nobel Prize."

Jed sighed, then smiled gently. "So you think I can't know everything, huh?"

_Two hours later_

"…And that was the third time my family visited the Grand Canyon."

House's leg was experiencing phantom pains. He had had his ass kicked at chess – twice! He had heard about almost every national park in America. And yet, he felt strangely invigorated. President Bartlet was about to start in on Sunset Crater National Monument when the door banged open.

"House! Clinic!"

_Oh, you have got to be kidding me_, he thought. "But… but I'm keeping the President company!"

"Mr. President, I'm sorry," Lisa Cuddy said. "But Dr. House hasn't fulfilled his clinic hours in nearly a month."

Jed's eyebrows shot straight up, and he looked from Cuddy to House and back again. Then he started laughing. "Oh, my," he guffawed. "Oh, Dr. House, you are definitely not using me as an excuse to get out of your job. That would run contrary to every health plan I put forth while in office."

"Dammit," House muttered. "Well, Mr. President, it was a pleasure to talk to you and to get my tail soundly whupped by you. Hopefully we'll get a chance to do this again."

With that, House stumped out of the room. Cuddy was about to follow him when Jed stopped her.

"Dr. Cuddy?" he said.

"Yes?" she replied, turning to him.

"Could you get Dr. Cameron please?"

"Is something wrong?" Lisa Cuddy asked, concerned.

"I can't feel anything on the left side of my body."


	7. Lies, Damn Lies and Statistics

_My apologies on how long it's been since I last updated... since the last update, I have moved from Los Angeles to Phoenix, and this is the first time I've actually been able to sit down at a computer and give a little time and thought to the story._

* * *

Allison Cameron had spent an hour trying to figure out what was wrong, and then once she did figure it out, another hour hoping that she was wrong. Finally, she shook her head, and said, "I'm sorry, Mr. President, the paralysis is permanent. It's your nervous system beginning to shut down as your MS goes into its final phases."

"I see," Jed Bartlet replied, a sigh escaping his lips. "Well, if I can't move my left side, that means I can't go anywhere… it means no more chess… it means I have to use a bedpan…"

He seemed especially irked by the idea of a bedpan. "Dammit!" he snapped. "Less than two days to live, and I still can't let myself be a little undignified."

Cameron truly had no idea what to say. Here was a man who had been the leader of the free world for eight years, who had done more in his seventy-four years than a dozen other men would have, and he was about to die. How was she supposed to tell him that a bedpan wasn't the end of the world?

She decided that perhaps she just wouldn't. She was about to say something when the President spoke.

"So, how would you like to hear some official state secrets?"

Dr. Cameron looked at President Bartlet, confused. "Huh? Official state secrets?"

"Oh, sure," Jed replied. "Nothing that would jeopardize national security, of course, but just all these things I've had to keep secret for all these years… I'd like to get a chance to just spill them before I die."

"Uh… okay…"

"Of course, you can't tell anybody," he continued. "Which means you get to bear the burden I have for the last twenty-two years."

"Hmmm." Cameron thought about it. "Will I be entertained?"

"Oh, absolutely!" Jed chuckled. "You will DEFINITELY be entertained."

"Well, then, have at it."

"Okay, first things first," Jed said. "Before we get into the more entertaining bits, I have to get something off my chest."

"Alright…"

"Abdul ibn Shareef. There were many rumors – none of which were ever confirmed or denied by the White House – that we had him assassinated."

Jed paused. His eyes grew vacant, almost with a thousand yard stare. "We did. We were certain that he was behind the attempted attack on the Golden Gate Bridge. So, I gave the order to take him out."

His voice took on a more weary tone. "Because of that order, a Secret Service agent died, my daughter spent nearly a week in terror, afraid she was going to die, and Glen Allen Walken's political career got flushed down the toilet. He didn't deserve that. He was a good man."

Cameron sat down, a sort of shock coming over her. "You know," she said quietly, "I always figured that's what happened, but I wasn't sure."

"Yeah," Jed said. "We didn't expect anything to happen – what could Qumar do? They're smaller than Iraq, for heaven's sake."

Then he stopped, and when he spoke again, it was with a far more cheerful tone. "But I promised you entertainment! So, if I told you that one of the science fiction TV shows from the first decade of this century was based on the truth, which one would you say?"

Cameron just shook her head. "I have no clue," she said. "Star Trek?"

Bartlet cocked an eyebrow –_ like Spock_, Cameron thought. "Star Trek is set two hundred years in the future, Dr. Cameron. Try again."

"Uh… the X-Files?"

At this, Bartlet laughed. "No, no, there are no crazy aliens rampaging around the planet. Also, Area 51 is an advanced aircraft testing center, nothing more."

"Hmmm… Doctor Who?"

"Closer than you might think," Bartlet replied. "The Timelords actually do exist. In 1955, one of their TARDISes crashed in England. The British government confiscated it, and when the Timelord's people showed up to collect him, the British government politely asked them to please stay the hell out of Earth's business. We're pretty sure they ignored us, but if they have been around, they've kept a very low profile.

"Anyway, that was a long way of saying, 'not quite'," Jed said. "Next guess?"

"Hmmm… Supernatural?"

"Bingo!" Jed crowed. "There you go. Back in the 1960s, there were these two brothers – I actually went to Notre Dame with them, they were training to be priests – and after they graduated, rather than going into the priesthood, they went around the country exorcising demons. Now, this has never been officially confirmed by the government, of course. However, we know about them, and we okay'd them selling the rights to their life story to Eric Kripke some time back. If we hadn't okay'd it, and they'd done it anyway…"

"You know what, I don't think I want to know the consequences," Cameron replied quickly.

"Fair enough. You want to know anything else?"

"I actually think I'd be better off not," she said. "But what about stories from when you were President? Are there any of those?"

"Of course," said Jed. "What would you like to hear?"

"Well, as a doctor, I've always been curious about the health of the country's leaders. Now, of course, everybody knew about your MS, and Leo McGarry's heart condition… but I'd like to know about Josh Lyman. About his PTSD."

Jed looked away from Cameron, toward the ceiling. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. "When Josh got shot at Rosslyn, it really messed him up but good mentally. He spent the next six months trying to exorcise his demons, but he just couldn't get over the shooting. Sam Seaborn, Toby Ziegler – they tried to help him, but it just wouldn't work. It was when he yelled at me in the Oval Office and then two days later Donna Moss noticed his hand bandaged and bleeding that we knew something was wrong.

"We brought in Stanley Keyworth –"

"From Cal-Berkeley?" Cameron interjected.

"Yes. He was recommended to the White House as one of the best. I actually had a few therapy sessions with him myself – which is another one of those state secrets, by the way. Anyway, we brought Stanley in, he managed to figure out in two hours what none of us could in six months, and because of his efforts, Josh Lyman had a happy Hanukkah that year. Then, right after New Year's, Josh came in to the Oval to speak to me…"

* * *

Jed Bartlet felt the presence of somebody waiting outside the door before he actually heard the knocking. So as soon as the first knock landed, he called out, "Come in!"

The door opened slowly, and in came Josh Lyman, who had made himself as unnoticeable as possible for the last month when in meetings in the Oval. He slowly approached the President's desk.

"Mr. President," he said softly. "I… I wanted to apologize for what happened last month. I think back on it, I can't believe I would ever raise my voice to you. I… I may be one of the small group of people who got you here, but… you're the man behind the desk. You're the President. I was completely out of line, and I'm incredibly sorry."

Bartlet said nothing for a moment, just looking at Josh. Finally, he spoke.

"Josh, the look on your face right now reminds me of the night when Elizabeth was 17, she took my Buick LeSabre out to go visit some friends, hit a patch of black ice, and ended up parking it – for the last time, as it turned out – in a ditch."

A smile began to creep onto Josh's face.

"Oh, I was mad, alright. That was a $15,000 car she had wrecked, and back in 1988, $15,000 was quite a bit of money! But I was far less concerned about that, and far more concerned about the fact that she was okay. She wasn't hurt. She was scared, but she wasn't hurt.

"We all recognized that there was something wrong quite a while ago, Josh," he continued. "And yes, I was pretty steamed that you yelled at me that night. I was about ready to fire you, but Leo told me not to. And I'm glad he did. You're a brilliant political mind, and you're like the son I never had.

"Now I know that you're not quite alright. I know that it's going to take some therapy. But the fact is, you're going to be alright. And all of us here will be supportive of you."

Jed paused. "Now, unless there's anything else, you might want to leave, lest I get out some slides of Wupatki National Monument and start regaling you with stories of the ancient Sinagua Indians."

A smile cracked across Josh's face. "No, sir, that'll be quite alright. I have a… thing, with a… guy, at a place."

"Alright, Josh," Jed said, smiling. "You can go, then."

"Yes, sir," Josh replied. "Thank you, Mr. President."

* * *

Cameron didn't say anything. Jed Bartlet was clearly at another time and place. After a moment of silence, he spoke.

"You know, I haven't seen Josh since… since Abby's funeral. He and Donna moved out to Seattle right after that… he said he was done with politics, that he was ready to retire and write his memoirs."

Cameron just sat, silently. She couldn't think of anything to say. President Bartlet's experiences were so far beyond her own… beyond anything she could've ever imagined. Fortunately for her, the awkward silence was interrupted by the bedside phone ringing.

She didn't think to move toward it, figuring that Bartlet would pick it up. Then, he said, "Uh, Dr. Cameron, if you wouldn't mind, the telephone is on the side of my body that's paralyzed…"

Embarrassed, she jumped to her feet. "Of course," she said, picking up the phone and handing it to him.

Taking the phone in his right hand, Bartlet said, "This is Jed Bartlet."

Somebody spoke on the other end for a moment, and his face brightened. "Josh Lyman? Absolutely I'll take a call from him!"

The call was connected, and then Bartlet nearly shouted, "Joshua Lyman! As I live and breathe! Your ears must've practically been on fire!"

As he continued his conversation, Cameron let herself out of his room. Glancing down at his charts, she shook her head.

President Bartlet wasn't going to live through the night.


	8. The Reason

It was close to midnight, but Cameron was still at the hospital. She was receiving updates on President Bartlet's condition every thirty minutes, and she knew that the end was near. 

She had decided that since she was technically off-duty, she was going to spend the President's last few minutes with him. When she went into his room at 11:45, though, he was asleep. So taking a seat, she settled in to wait with him.

After a few minutes, she thought she heard him say something. "Mr. President?" she asked.

Then he spoke a little more clearly. "Pater noster qui es in caelis..."

Cameron had never been a particularly religious person, but she immediately recognized the words "Pater noster" to mean "Our Father," and realized that Bartlet was praying. She quickly bowed her head, though she wasn't quite sure why - it just seemed like the right thing to do.

"Sanctificetur Nomen Tuum... adveniat Regnum Tuum, fiat voluntas Tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra."

Bartlet paused. He was having trouble breathing, but he seemed determined to continue. "Panem nost-"

A coughing fit interrupted him. When he settled down, he tried again, but it just came out as a wheeze. A look of frustration grew on his face as Cameron looked up and met his eyes.

Where the words came from, she wasn't sure, but it was as though a long-dormant memory had come to life. "Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

Bartlet smiled weakly. "Amen," he gasped.

He collected his breath and his composure. "Dr. Cameron," he whispered.

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Thank you for spending so much time with me. Thank you for letting an old man tell some of his life's story. And thank Dr. House for me. If I had to go, I'm glad that it was among people who care as much as all of you."

Cameron felt her cheeks grow wet. She took hold of the President's hand. "Thank you for sharing your story with me," she said. "It was an honor to spend your last few hours with you, sir."

Jed Bartlet smiled. "It's a pity... it's a pity I didn't get to tell you more about the national parks."

Then, the smile still on his face, his eyes closed, and his breathing began to slow.

But Jed was still aware of what was going on. He heard the rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor. The rhythm grew slower and slower, and then, finally, it became one steady tone. And then the door opened.

Jed opened his eyes to see an old familiar face looking at him. "Now that's not fair," he said to Leo McGarry. "You haven't been aging for the last fifteen years, so it isn't fair that you get to look better than I do."

"Hey, what can I say," Leo replied. "The afterlife's been good to me." Looking around the room, his eyes fell on Dr. Cameron. "Little young for you, don't you think?"

"She's my doctor, you dirty old man," Jed replied. "And she's older than Annabeth Schott was, so don't even try getting all high and mighty with me."

"Touché, touché," Leo replied, holding his hands up in mock defeat. "I should've known better than to try to argue with you."

Jed fell silent. "Well," he said, "I take it it's time?"

"Indeed it is," Leo said. "There's a car waiting downstairs for us. Abby insisted on coming with me, and given the nature of the occasion, Fitz insisted on driving."

"How can I resist?" Jed asked drily. He swung his legs out of the bed, stood, and headed for the door. "So, Leo, tell me... what's next?" he asked, opening the door.

* * *

Cameron watched the cardiac monitor slowly wind down. The rhythmic beep got slower and slower, and finally became one steady tone. When it did, the door opened behind her. 

Gregory House walked in. "I won't make you call it," he said softly.

Looking at the wall clock, he said, "Time of death: 11:52 PM."

He made the notation on the chart, then left the room, letting the door shut behind him.


	9. What Kind of Day Has It Been

Cameron was walking down the hall, away from President Bartlet's room, and back toward her office, when she saw Dr. Wilson walking toward her. He looked normal... but at the same time, not quite. She couldn't put her finger on what looked different...

But then, when she got a little bit closer, she realized. He had a small black ribbon pinned to his lab coat... and he was wearing a yarmulke. "Dr. Wilson?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

He stopped, and looked - well, somewhere between confused and embarrassed. "Listen, I know President Bartlet was Catholic... but none of his family is here... and it seems... well, it just seems appropriate that I should go and sit shiva with him until his family arrives."

Cameron shook her head. "Wait a second, back up. You - by your own admission, a non-practicing Jew - are going to go sit shiva with somebody who not only isn't part of your family, but is Catholic as well?"

"Like I said," Wilson replied, "I don't really understand it myself. It just seems like what I'm supposed to do."

With that, he proceeded down the hallway. Cameron looked after him, and then just shook her head slightly. Sixteen years, and she still didn't understand the staff here at times.

When she got to her office, she realized that there was an enormous stack of paperwork on her desk that she'd neglected for the last two days. Well, it was going to get neglected for one more night. She did what little she had to do regarding President Bartlet, then shut down her computer, and left her office, locking the door behind her.

As she was entering the lobby on her way out the door, the doors opened, bringing in a gust of wind, snow, and a man covered in snow. He wasn't very tall, he was bald except for a gray fringe and a practically white beard, and he looked almost like the abominable snowman.

Despite the fact that he must have been cold, he strode with purpose to the reception desk. "I need to know where the President is," he announced, a thick New York accent punctuating the statement.

"I'm sorry, I can't give out that information," the duty nurse replied.

"No, you don't understand. You need to tell me where he is," the man insisted. "I just spent the last six hours illegally driving down a closed turnpike from New York City so I could come and see him. Now, you can tell me where he is, or I can call some friends, they can talk to you, and THEN you can tell me where he is anyway!"

"Sir," the duty nurse replied, "you're going to need to leave now, or I'm going to have to call security."

He threw his hands up in the air. "This is unbelievable! What the hell is wrong with you?"

At this point, Cameron thought it would be wise to intervene, lest a former member of the President's senior staff find himself in custody. "Mr. Ziegler?" she said, crossing the lobby to him. "You're Toby Ziegler, right?"

"Yes. Are you an idiot too, or does that not apply to all the employees of this hospital?"

"Uh, why don't we go someplace we can talk privately," Cameron said, taking hold of Toby Ziegler's arm. Behind her, it seemed as though if you looked close enough, you would actually see steam coming out of the duty nurse's ears.

Cameron guided Toby into a hallway. "Mr. Ziegler, I'm Allison Cameron. I... was... President Bartlet's doctor."

"Was?" he replied. "Were you removed from the case for some reason?"

She realized that he either didn't understand, or was denying the truth. "No... the President... he passed away about an hour ago."

Toby's face fell. "I... I just missed him."

He turned toward the wall, and slowly rested his forehead against it. "Dammit... I wanted... I wanted to talk to him, just one last time. I wanted to know that it was all okay, that he had forgiven me."

His face began to crumple, but almost immediately, he turned back toward Cameron, a spark having lit his eyes. "You didn't - he isn't unattended, is he? I mean, he's not just lying in a morgue without anybody around, is he?" The urgency of his questions shocked Cameron.

"No, no..." she started. "Oddly enough, right before I ran into you, Dr. Wilson - the head of oncology - headed back toward President Bartlet's room. He said that even though he's not a practicing Jew, and even though President Bartlet wasn't family, and even though President Bartlet was Catholic, he felt like staying with him was the right thing to do."

As she watched, the tension visibly left Toby Ziegler, leaving him almost deflated. He was silent for a while.

When he finally spoke, he said, "Jed Bartlet WAS like family to me. Would it be alright if I were to go back there and stay with him?"

Cameron thought. It was against all the rules of the hospital, but this case was different. "Come with me," she said.

When they reached the President's room, the Secret Service agent standing outside recognized Toby. "Good evening, Mr. Ziegler," he said.

"Hello, Wesley," Toby replied.

Wesley opened the door, letting them in. As the door opened, Dr. Wilson looked up. He also recognized Toby, and stood. "Mr. Ziegler," he said, "Ha-Makom y'nachem et'khem b'tokh sh'ar avelei Tziyon viyrushalayim."

"I haven't heard that in years," Toby said softly. "But it definitely seems appropriate here. Thank you."

Toby dug a crumpled yarmulke out of a jacket pocket and affixed it to his head. "You know, I never thought I'd outlive him," he said. "In fact, he didn't either... he used to tease me about my blood pressure."

He sat down with Dr. Wilson. "There was this time... we were out on Pennsylvania Avenue, playing basketball. It was really late one night..."

Cameron slowly backed out of the room, shutting the door as she went. As she did, she noticed House standing by the room, looking in the window.

"It's funny," he said. "I've never seen Wilson practice a Jewish ritual quite so seriously as he is right now."

"President Bartlet was a great man," Cameron replied. "Sometimes that kind of greatness brings out hidden things in other people."

"Maybe so," House said. "In any event... it's time for you to go home and get some sleep. I need you here, fresh, at 8:00 AM."

"Alright," she acquiesced. "I'm going."

As she was leaving, his voice stopped her again. "Cameron."

She turned back to him.

"In the sixteen years I've worked with you, I've often given you a hard time about being too sympathetic for your patients, for growing too attached to them. And I have to be honest, with President Bartlet, you definitely grew too attached."

He paused, as if thinking about what to say. "And quite honestly, if I were dying... that's exactly what I would want. You gave your time to make a dying man's last few hours a little better. It didn't matter to you that he had been the President for eight years, you just recognized that he was somebody who needed somebody to talk to and to spend time with him.

"That's what makes the difference between a good doctor and a great doctor. You did well, Allison. Have a good night."

Cameron looked after him. She was speechless. Finally, she was able to find her voice.

"Good night, House."

"Good night, Cameron." 


End file.
